The Empty Chair
by Llamasrus
Summary: John Watson writes about his life after the Fall. Warning, it is very angsty. I am sorry.


I didn't know much about him when we first met. Hell, I didn't know a thing about him. All I knew was that he was a friend of Stamford's and was looking for a flatmate. I thought that maybe I could get to know him before we looked at a flat, but that didn't work out well…obviously. I still wonder what would have happened if I didn't show up to Baker Street that night. I guess I wouldn't be sitting here across from an empty chair, would I?

So the days go on and on and yet there is no one to fill the empty chair. Though I hesitate to admit, I had sat in the chair many times to fill it with some form of life even if mine isn't the same. The black leather doesn't seem the same, it never does. I've never moved the coat or the scarf that hangs by the door, the violin that sits haphazardly placed in its case as if he had stopped playing in a hurry before everything happened, nor the teacups sitting in the tray on the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson unfortunately moved all his equipment and threw out his experiments (a good thing too since they were of no use to him anymore), so there's a loss of some sort of memory. Honestly, I have to admit I'm glad I get a little more sleep since he's not downstairs making all sorts of noises…but one does tend to miss the normality of the sounds that many would find obnoxious in the extreme.

I've gone back to work, helping Lestrade when I can. He feels guilty about what happened and tried to resign multiple times, but he can't. Sally and Anderson haven't been the same since he fell, she won't even look at me when I come in and Anderson gives me a passive look before moving on. Lestrade has told me how sorry he is over and over again, how he hates to admit he misses him (though he did shyly admit he misses how he always insulted Anderson now that he sees how much he deserved it), and how he doesn't see how he's fit for his job anymore after he let his friend die. But I can't blame him. The last thing I said to his face was…I called him a "machine". I will never forgive myself. I should've known something was wrong, that he was closer to committing suicide than I let myself believe. The fact that he was…_is_ my best friend makes it all the more terrible. Friends don't let friends kill themselves.

Yet I sit here, running like a machine, working, trying to help Lestrade solve crimes and not succeeding, so I gave up. Mrs. Hudson visits sometimes, usually bringing some little cakes or puddings she's made, and we play cards or watch crap telly. I can sometimes hear Sherlock yelling at the screen. She leaves after I make no effort to try and be happy, always leaving me with a hug and a small peck on the cheek as well as a cuppa that is never touched.

I feel bad for not doing anything productive or being happy for people, it's just…I can't find the will. It's sad, yes, but I'll be all right. I've got the nightmares to stop after a long while, probably not in the best manner either. When he died, they didn't bother to search beneath the floorboards for any cigarettes or his secret stash of nicotine patches. It was a miserable habit, yes, but it helped. That was all I could find, no other drugs of any sort, which I suppose is relatively good since all I'm able to get addicted to is nicotine. No I see why he had such a horrible time keeping away from these things. Mrs. Hudson took my gun and gave it to Lestrade a few weeks after all the chaos, not trusting me anymore. It was a good thing I suppose, but I feared being shot before, and look what happened.

So here I am, taking the time to write and taking the time to think. I had gotten emails that someone has been commenting on my blog under the username "The Yellow Wallpaper" (which personally doesn't make any sense to me, but it's not mine so it doesn't really matter), but I choose to ignore them since the blog is basically useless to me now. Mrs. Hudson does ask me about it often, but I never say anything to her about it, I only shrug and tell her it's going good; then she mentions how I haven't updated it in three years before she walks out, closing the door behind her. She doesn't come up as often anymore, probably because I caught her crying when she and Lestrade were talking about me in private, about how worried they were. It was annoying, but I was glad to see someone still cared.

I came down this morning planning to write more since being absent for a few days (as stated above), but I noticed something odd in the flat. I couldn't figure out what it was until I nearly ran into the chair that used to be his: it had been moved just the slightest and the violin had been moved in the case so it now lay neatly in its place. I hadn't touched it and I knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn't dare touch it. I searched the flat but found nothing, except a note on my laptop written in spidery handwriting I knew all too well: _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway_.

I began to search the flat for any sign of the author, but found none other than the movement of the violin and the chair, yet again as if he'd left in a hurry. I began to worry, afraid I'd missed him, but the possibility of this…of his actually being alive…was overwhelming, entirely too impossible. Yet it was a small light at the end of a very long and very dark tunnel and I was not willing to lose it.

I had no luck in the search of the flat and began to lose hope, but the sound of the front door downstairs caught me by surprise and I ran to greet whoever had entered. Figuring I needed to be decent, I slid on my shoes and buttoned my shirt the rest of the way, and went to the door. But as I opened the door to the flat, I was stopped by a tall body wearing a long, blue coat and wearing a navy blue scarf…just like his old one.

"Could be dangerous."

I stared up at him, unsure of what to do, how to react, what to say…how to breathe. He'd lost a considerable amount of weight, a certain light in his eyes seeming to still break through on his sullen face, and his hair seemed to be so much shorter than I remembered. He tried to smile, but his lips began to tremble and a frown formed, tears filling his eyes. Why was he so sad?

"Oh John…" said Sherlock Holmes.

He wore a look of pity, a look I had only see him wear whilst acting, pretending to be the friend of a dead man, or assumed to be. And now I am the friend of an assumed dead man. It felt strange, it was like he was looking through me. What the hell was he looking at? I followed his gaze and turned around, nearly collapsing onto the floor.

There on the floor lay my body, my face pale and sullen, and near my hand lay a discarded pill bottle, entirely empty. I looked at my hands, perfectly opaque, yet I couldn't understand why I was lying on the floor. Sherlock moved past me and stopped beside my body, kneeling down and let his hands hover on either side of my face. The cry he gave…I never want to relive it.

But I'm not living anymore…am I?

He pulled my body into his arms and buried his face in my neck, asking himself over and over again why he let this happen. I wanted to reach out to him, comfort him somehow, but I couldn't move. This wasn't real…this wasn't happening. No. His shoulders began shaking as sobs wracked his body, blaming himself over and over again.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" he questioned, "I was coming back. Why didn't you wait for me?"

His body was shaking with sobs as he pulled back and looked at my dead face, my eyes wide, dead, and staring. What had I done? I began to shake my head and I wanted so much to fall to my knees, but it deemed physically impossible as I watched on, watched my best friend break down as I once had when I mourned his death. I was so ashamed of myself. Why had I done this? Why?

As I tried to move forward, a sudden pulling sensation started on my arms, followed by my legs, my head, everything. I realized too late that I was being taken by something, taken to wherever I was supposed to go. I fought, I screamed, I cried, but it didn't let up. It brought me to the ground, dragging me down the hall towards the stairs…or where the stairs should have been. Replacing them now was a large, gaping white hole lined with faces I knew looked familiar, but could not place names to them. That was not where I wanted to go.

"No!" I screamed, "I can't be without him, let me live! Please!"

But it was too late and I knew it. I had been too far gone when Sherlock arrived and there was absolutely no hope to save me now. No hope…and it was my fault.

I should have waited just a little bit longer.

Goodbye, Sherlock.


End file.
